Make It Stop
by Crimefire
Summary: They all thought he was mad. They thought he was insane. He wished he was. But the drumming was real, all too real.


They're always with him. The repetitive set of four, pounding into his mind, ringing through his ears and it was torture. There is never any silence. On good days he can sometimes pretend it's just the sound of the universe, his universe.

On dire days, he curls up into the fetal position, clutching his head in agony. The sound rattles through his spine throughout his entire body – it's probably the beat of his hearts too. He tugs at his hair in a silent scream. Nothing exists but the sound of drums.

* * *

><p>He stares at the pathetic creature locked up in the cage. This was the <em>Doctor, <em>in his weak, aged form. The Master clenches his hands on the bars of the cage, forehead to forehead, and stares intensely into the wizened creature's eyes inside.

"Can't you hear it?" he hisses. "The sound of drums. It's so loud. Can't you hear it? _Why_ can't you hear it?"

No one understands him. They think he hears things that don't exist. They think he's mental, delusional and insane. But it's physical. When the drums are loud, he swears he can feel his blood pulsing to that hateful set of four. It is absolutely Insufferable.

All the power he had, and the worst enemy is his own head. He had a fleeting, hopeful thought when regenerating – every time, even though he should have known better - perhaps the drums would die away with each death. The drums never quietened, but he never stopped hoping.

* * *

><p>He's sitting at his desk in the Prime Minister's office, breathing shallowly. He absently taps on the polished wooden table in sets of four.<p>

Sometimes, he would think up ways of combating those drums. He was curious sometimes. If he ripped out his brain would they stop? Except he knew that he would die if he smashed his head in, that was the only reason why he didn't consider the idea. He didn't like causing injury to himself either, though the pain would probably distract him.

He had tried running to the furthest corners of the universe when he was young. He thought the sound was from the Untempered Schism and the further away he was from it, the better. He had been travelling for hours in his time machine (which was saying something) before he realised the drums had yet to quieten a bit.

Another scheme, he reminisces, was eating a lot of sugar. That was from his early days, when someone at the Academy told him sweets were meant to make you feel better. That idiot, he sighs, before absent-mindedly pulling out a white paper bag and nibbling on a jelly baby.

* * *

><p>"That sound in your head – I can help you!"<p>

He eyes the Doctor, who was begging him. The Master snorts inwardly. How could he help, when he didn't even _understand? _ The Doctor was also one of the _others – _ones who believe that the drumming was the sign of insanity.

He knows the Doctor was saying what he was because there was no other choice – there was nothing else he knew that the Master cared about. This Earth – the Doctor would do anything to lessen the suffering of his beloved humans.

There may have been a time where the Master would have accepted an offer to help, grudgingly, unwillingly, but accepted nonetheless.

But here, he hears that offer, and rage boils up within him, and like fuel for the drums, they get louder. How dare he say something like that now, after all those years, like he cares? The pace of the drums quickens and reaches a crescendo. Hatred and vengeance simmer up within him. He looks up and sees the man mouthing something – he can't hear past the drums – and vows this man will pay.

* * *

><p>"Many thanks to the British Minister of Defence, Harold Saxon, for launching the Archangel Project!"<p>

The Master raises his hands in appreciation of the crowd of humans gathered before him. The Archangel Project is perfect for him to bend the minds of these primates. And they thank him for it too! He grins, albeit acrimoniously. At last, he can put the drums to use.

As much as he hates it, the sound of drums is a part of him, and soon, the whole universe will hear it too.

* * *

><p>"You mean…you're just going to <em>keep <em>me," he states, blandly.

"Mm. If that's what I have to do," the Doctor says, avoiding his eyes.

The Master is disgusted. He is going to be kept like a pet dog. And he sees no way out of this one. He grinds his teeth together, as the drums play like a call to war. What now, he thinks furiously. He hasn't felt hopelessness like this in a long time. His wrists tug weakly at the shackles that bind them together. What am I going to-

He hears a shot ring out, and the shell tinkering onto the floor. He feels the pain in his side. At first, his mind is blank with shock, but then he realizes that he has a way out.

He smiles as the blurry form of the Doctor rushes towards him, holding his head up.

"How about that," he whispers, raising an eyebrow. He sees the Doctor looking at him with so much grief, holding his head to his chest. "I win," he murmurs, giving a bitter, amused smile. Yes. He had won. It was all worth it, seeing that agony on his former friend's face. More importantly, he is going to be free.

Then the drums break out, louder and more volatile than ever. His self control cracks and panic overwhelms him. "Will it stop, Doctor? The drumming?" he begs.

His eyes widen in panic as the sounds of drums takes over his mind, blurring his vision, shaking his whole body. His blood, his heart, everything is going by the beat of those drums. His eyes roll towards the back of his head.

He can hardly feel the hands holding him up. "Will it stop?" he whispers, before suddenly, realising that the sound is muting. The drums are fading.

He smiles.

* * *

><p>Review please? :D<p> 


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